Data, Data, Data
by Anneka Neko
Summary: ONESHOT. Sometimes, Holmes wasn’t sure what the appeal of the outside world was. Holmes has a bad day. Implied slash.


Authoress' Notes:

Remember that scene in the restaurant? When the diners and waiters just spun into a crazy, rushing mix of sounds and deductions that made Holmes seem almost panicky?

I loved that bit! :D I love the idea of Holmes panicking because of too much stimulation. After all, he tries to catalogue everything—who's to say it doesn't overwhelm him? So, I wrote this piece operating on the basic idea that sometimes even Sherlock Holmes has an off day.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, the gay would be _way_ more obvious.

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**Data, Data, Data**

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It very nearly took a revolver held against his temple, but Sherlock Holmes had finally agreed to an evening out. The lull since his last case had left him desperately… bored wasn't the word. There was an honest desperation, a _panic_ at his inactivity that somehow still left him feeling listless and uncaring, that he couldn't seem to put a word to. He wasn't actually sure how long it had been since he'd been out—his seven percent solution had consumed him of late—but the light hit his eyes like bleach, stinging and burning to his very core.

Sometimes, Holmes wasn't sure what the appeal of the outside world was. He went out, to be sure, primarily so Watson wouldn't fuss quite so much, but unless he was on a case, he never seemed to enjoy himself. He spent the entire time cataloging information, with no way to sort or prioritize it. He felt wretched, and his head was beginning to throb, but he had to pay attention, or he would miss the butcher out for a break stepping in front of the delivery boy who was taking a short detour on his way back from a delivery to a wealthy housewife, and that baker's assistant over there, sneaking a pastry from the tray he was carrying up a set of thirteen stairs that needed some sweeping--

"Holmes."

-- and that girl over there wasn't supposed to be running around like that, she had crept away from her mother over there, the woman with the brown skirt who was engaged in adultery, standing next to the young man who worked Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Café Royal and stole the silver, the mud on whose boots showed he had just come from the docks--

"Holmes."

--presumably buying the package of fish he carried under his arm, and the man who just stepped into Holmes' path was a tailor, and there was a governess, the skirt twirling, carriage wheels creaking, a little uneven on the front left, and that man had once been a proud military man, until the scandal that had ruined not only his career, but that of his comrade—

"_Holmes."_

A hand gripping his shoulder firmly brought Holmes out of his reverie quite suddenly. Blinking in confusion, he looked around at his friend. "Er, yes, Watson? What is it, old boy?"

The doctor frowned at him, concern written in his eyes—a particular blue Holmes had never seen anywhere else, though he'd looked. "Are you alright?" Watson asked quietly. Holmes found he couldn't look away, trapped by those eyes.

"Yes… yes, Watson, I'm fine," he lied, tearing his gaze away. He was immediately assaulted by the world again. He wasn't fine, but he would be as soon as he got away from the drunk on the corner who wanted to kill the man across the street who owed him too much, and the young lovers crossing the street who were hoping to run away from the girl's overbearing father, and the schoolteacher—

"Come on," Watson murmured, turning around. He pulled his friend with him, walking back up Baker Street towards the familiar door of 221B.

"What about dinner, old boy?" –who was worried about the performance of a particular student, and who was going to visit the boy's mother, and the landlady of 213A whose tenants were three weeks behind on the rent, and the seamstress who was new on the job, who had to stop suddenly to avoid walking into the priest, who had stopped to ask the old beggar at the corner if he wanted to come into the chapel for a hot meal, the beggar who had once been a decorated soldier until the early death of his wife had sent him into drinking and despair—

"I seem to have lost my appetite," Watson replied, as the policeman walked past on his regular beat, a man Holmes had spoken to once or twice on his cases, by the name of Thompson, with a wife of seven years and two children and a great hound named Peter, and there was a young lord who was in the process of squandering his inherited wealth, walking next to his young, too-beautiful wife, who was hiding from him her dalliances with gentlemen of society, just as he concealed his heavy gambling habit, and they paused to let the harried young mother of four cross the street towards the doctor's office three buildings down, carrying the sick child while trying to herd the other three who danced around her in the street, and the sailor stepped towards the waiting cab to go out to dinner with a fellow, and Holmes was vaguely aware of being led over the threshold—

Watson shut the door with a firm snap, shutting out the confusion and busyness of a world filled with more details and facts than even the great Sherlock Holmes could process. The relief was nearly physical, and Holmes let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," he said softly, as Watson steered him towards the sitting room. Holmes all but collapsed into a chair.

"Mrs. Hudson," he heard the doctor call as he stepped towards the kitchen, "I'm sorry, but we'll be eating here tonight after all." She said _some_thing in reply, and Holmes wanted to know what it was, but his eyes were slipping closed, and it couldn't hurt to shut them just for a moment. It had been a stressful outing, after all.

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Sorry if it was difficult to follow the flow of the piece, but that was kind of the point—Holmes being overloaded by too much information.

Did anyone notice the furtive reference to a gay affair? :D It's in there, trust me.

Please review!


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